Melancholy Feeling
by Jessieebee
Summary: It wasn't a dream, just a thought, but it was so powerful it half-roused her from sleep. They want me to be happy so bad? Well, let's see what happens when I get sad.


This was very liberating to write. I have struggled with diagnosable depression, but because of what happened to my mother and my aunt I will never take pills. Both of their doctors hastily perscribed them with pills that made them act strangely to themselves and their families. My mom was able to break a dependency on them because she only took them for migranes, but my aunt uses them to this day. Even though I was talking about a condition I and my family are familiar with, this story is in no way a self-insertion.

I do not, nor do I claim to, own the rights to DK's Flight 29 Down. Reviews make me oh-so-happy:)

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It's no secret that Melissa was always a happy person. Sure, she had her little self-confidence trip-ups every once and awhile, but for the most part she was counted on by people to cheer them up. But after awhile, that expectation of her began to be too much -- a heavy weight on her shoulders. The island only made it worse, because then it wasn't simply to improve the mood of those around her, but to help others _survive_. It made her scared, scared that she might slip one day, falter, and as a result push everyone else apart. It got so bad that she wouldn't sleep most nights, couldn't, for fear of letting go, even for a second.

Once she realized what was happening to her, she assumed it would get better once she was off the island. But once she got home, it only worsened. She had seen what could happen when people drifted apart, and now she felt her "job" was more important than ever.

And then, one day, she collapsed.

It was as normal a day as any, and not long after she arrived home. She had gone to bed weary and worn, and, though she doesn't remember it, a thought came to her during the night. It wasn't a dream, just a thought, but it was so powrful it half-roused her from sleep.

_They want me to be happy so bad? Well, let's see what happens when I get sad_.

The thought drifted away and she resumed sleep. And the morning after was the day that our dear happy Melissa turned sad.

She remembers not being able to get out of bed, or even to lift her heavy bones. She remembers inexplicably crying big, silent tears. Throwing up, difting in and out of fitful, nightmare-filled sleep, and lots of peering, prying faces, intruding and asking what was wrong. She remembers huddling deep inside her bedsheets and whispering that she was "sad, so sad, so sad."

The rest of the week was a blur of concerned family members whisking her off to doctor after doctor, and each perscribed the same thing; diagnosable depression. They hastily set her up with a bottle of pills and were done with her. She doesn't remember taking them, but their effects will always stay with her, for the rest of her life.

All emotion was gone. She no longer cried, but she was not happy either. She felt like she lived underwater. She remembers feeling like she could handle anything. But it wasn't exactly self-confidence, more like a shallow awareness of an ability. And all the while, some part of her that wasn't touched by the medicine but never reached her brain, was despereate just to _feel_ something.

It was several weeks before her dosage ran out. Her mother had already picked up the new ones that morning, and was on her way out the door, firmly instructing Melissa to take them. Melissa remembers _intending_ to, even taking out a glass of the cabinet and filling it up with water, but she could distantly feel her earlier perscription wearing off. In desperation to hold onto it, she grabbed the pill bottle and ran outside, into the pouring rain.

She slammed the front door behind her and threw the perscription box out onto the driveway. She sunk down onto the doorstep and cried, silently but for all she was worth. She lifted her face up and let the rain mix in with her tears, running in currents down her cheeks. She knew she was disobeying her family by not taking the pills, but she hated them, hated the way they made her feel. She also knew she was getting a lot of curious looks by the people passing by, but she didn't care about that either. She felt alive, full, full of that delicious melancholy feeling that spread through her whole being before translating itself into strength. And it was OK, everything was OK, because she reasoned that there was some beauty in being _herself_, all of her, and living it, each and every day.

Something she absolutely intended to do.


End file.
